


Blue Sickness

by gnimmish



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 07:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18441530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnimmish/pseuds/gnimmish
Summary: Peter gets a cold. Gamora makes him soup. [set shortly after GOTG2]





	Blue Sickness

**Author's Note:**

> I have whooping cough, so now all my favourite characters are sick too because apparently this is therapy for me.

Turns out, getting sick on the Milano sucks balls.

And it especially sucks because Peter can count the number of times he’s had a cold on one hand. He barely ever gets sick – hurt, sure. But not sick. He’s never really had to worry about catching anything since Yondu picked him up – at first he’d figured it was just the result of being  terran in a galaxy full of diseases only other species could catch. But turns out, being part Celestial will protect you from a lot of stuff, too.

“Not the blue sickness, though,” Mantis says, as Peter sneezes into his sleeve for like the billionth time that morning, “that was the only thing that ever made Ego sick. It was some sort of allergic reaction, I think. He would be sick until he had expelled all of it from his system.”

“Allergies?!” Peter groans, “of all the things that dick could pass on to me, I get his allergies?!”

“What kinda name’s ‘the blue sickness’?” Rocket asks – right as Peter hocks up the biggest, grossest most neon blue luegy to ever bless this side of the galaxy with its presence.

“Oh my god, Quill!” Rocket covers his face with his paws as Drax laughs and slaps Peter on the back to congratulate him.

“That’s disgusting,” Gamora announces, “and we should put down on Xandar until it stops happening.”

So that’s what they do.

Drax and Rocket go out drinking, Gamora takes Mantis and Groot for ice cream, and Peter gets to lay in his bunk coughing up electric blue phlegm and nursing the worst headache of his life.

Gamora gets back first. Groot is running around gloating about being big enough to finally carry his own ice cream cone, and Mantis is burbling about sugar, which it turns out she’s never had before. So Gamora puts Groot in front of a video game (they’ve gotta stop using that to babysit him, it can’t be good for his little green brain – but today is not the day to pick that battle) and gives Mantis a comic book, and then she brings Peter some soup.

Which is all to say that Peter loves this woman so deeply that if he weren’t so sick right now he’d get up and fight a bear for her.

Turns out she didn’t just take Mantis and Groot for icecream – she picked up some herbs and spices and some kind of fermented seaweed paste _and she made him soup_.

Peter can’t remember the last time anyone made him soup – not since his mom, anyway. Certainly no one on Yondu’s crew ever gave a shit if he was sick or sad or injured.  And sure, Gamora and him are kind of a Thing – a Thing that actually involves kissing and stuff now – but they haven’t exactly discussed what sort of a Thing they are (it’s _unspoken_ , after all), and he didn’t know they were a ‘bringing him soup’ kind of a Thing. But he’s very glad they are.

“This is something I remember my mother making me,” Gamora offers, sitting on the edge of his bunk and carefully placing a spoon in the bowl of dark, cloudy broth. “At least, I think it is. I had to make some substitutions. You can’t get all the right ingredients here.”

“Thanks,” Peter sits up – genuinely, deeply (kinda embarrassingly) moved. “It smells good.”

He’s lying – he can’t smell anything cause his nose is so clogged it might as well be glued shut. But the soup looks good. And if his nose is so stuffed up he can’t smell anything he probably can’t taste shit either which means that even if it’s bad he won’t care.

He takes the bowl.

The spice punches him in the throat on his first spoonful and he finds himself coughing up half his lungs before he can swallow. Gamora has to grab the bowl to stop it toppling out of his lap.

“It’s not good,” Gamora looks crestfallen, putting the bowl on the floor to steady him until he’s finished coughing.

“No – I mean – ” Peter wipes his streaming eyes – smears blue snot across his face in the process and has to grab a tissue. “It’s good, just got – one hell of a kick on it, jeez – ”

“I should have tempered it,” Gamora frowns. “My mother always said the spice helped to aid recovery, but perhaps – ”

“No, she was definitely right about that,” Peter thumps his chest demonstrably, “whatever the hell that blue sickness is, that soup is definitely gonna kill it.”

Gamora eyes him doubtfully – she doesn’t know if that’s a compliment or not, and he’s a dumbass.

“It’s good, Gamora, gimme the soup.” He holds out his hand, squeezes her arm.

And under the brain-burning heat of it, the soup is good – salty, savoury, rich – the liquid is full of billowing clouds of sediment and floating patches of greenery, grains of rice and some kind of chopped up root vegetable. It’s soothing, somehow. And also, definitely the most nutritious thing he’s eaten in the last decade.

He manages to slurp it all down, under Gamora’s watchful gaze. It makes his eyes and nose stream yet more blue gunk, but by the time he’s finishes the bowl he feels… kinda better?

“That stuff is magic,” he declares, setting the empty bowl on his bedside table, “I wanna live off it forever.”

If she could, Peter’s pretty sure Gamora would flush with pleasure. “I’ll make you some more later.”

She does, too. She feeds him that soup six times a day, every day for a week. And maybe it really is magic – or maybe there’s just something about being settled in one place, not constantly scared for their lives, resting, sleeping regular and getting proper meals that’s actually, y’know, good for him or something – but he gets steadily better. (He thinks maybe it’s not the rest or the soup, though – maybe it’s just Gamora, being sweet to him, hanging out with him. Maybe _she’s_ the magic).

His head slowly stops aching, his throat stops raking every time he coughs – the steady stream of blue mucus from his every orifice begins to ebb.

And the whole time he’s sick, Gamora feeds him, and lounges on the end of his bed while he eats, listening to his zune.

 She likes Pat Benetar and The Runaways. Anything with a badass woman singing next to a killer guitar riff.  Peter keeps half an eye on her while he eats – goes slow so she’ll stay longer. They’ve never just had – like – a few days to hang out. He’s never gotten to just sit and look at her before. He likes everything he sees.

 He likes the way she beats one heel off the bunk frame, head bobbing to the music, humming softly – she has a nice, kinda smoky voice. He likes the way she fiddles with her hair when she doesn’t have anything else to do with her hands. He likes curl of her mouth over a good lyric – the way she closes her eyes when she’s really listening to a song. He likes soaking her presence up like broth – like medicine.  

In the evenings the other Guardians pile into his bunk so they can all watch The Ugliest Lick – a local reality show where Xandarians compete to see what the ugliest creature they can lick is. It’s dumb, and hilarious. Apparently it has a spin off called ‘The Prickliest Hug’ which Peter is now totally desperate to see.

Between Drax and Groot – who’s literally growing like a weed – and Mantis and Rocket, Peter ends up kinda squashed between the end of his bed and Gamora, which he’s not complaining about. She leans her weight into him like it’s easy – like it’s something they do all the time – and he lays an arm around her shoulders and keeps it there. It feels a little new, still, to be able to do that.

They’re a Thing, sure, but they haven’t been like… affectionate in front of the other Guardians before. Drax doesn’t seem to notice, Mantis doesn’t seem to care and Rocket is just ignoring them. Groot is asleep.

Then some scrawny Xandarian bravely volunteers to lick something that looks like a cross between a newt and a turd. Then Gamora grabs his hand and holds it over her own eyes.

While Drax and Rocket howl with laughter and Mantis shrieks, Peter takes the opportunity to press his face to the crown of Gamora’s head. He’s kissed her a bunch of times by now, but never there. She squeezes his hand – the one that’s still over her eyes.

“You two are putting me off my dinner over here!” Rocket hurls a spork at them the next night.

Gamora has brought Peter more soup while he’s in bed. He’s eating it. His legs are also in her lap and she’s kinda stroking his knees but that is seriously none of Rocket’s business.

“Well stop watching us while you eat!” Peter yells back, then has to stop and cough up yet more blue mucus because it turns out that an intergalactic chest infection isn’t great for his voice.

“Your door is open! I can see you from the table!” Rocket gesticulates with a paw, “look at you, she’s practically spoon-feeding you!”

“I am not spoon-feeding him!” Gamora glares, “I can show you spoon feeding if you like!”

“Yeah, no, I’d like to not throw up any time soon, thanks!” Rocket retorts – which only makes Gamora take the bowl of soup from Peter and pick up the spoon; it’s a gesture she somehow makes look threatening.

Peter cocks an eyebrow at her, then shrugs, and opens his mouth expectantly. Gamora hesitates only a moment before pushing the spoon past his lips.  

“Oh my god!” Rocket slams his paws on the table, “I’m gonna hurl, I am actually gonna hurl – good luck paying for Groot’s therapy bills – ”

“I am Groot!”

Rocket picks up his plate and stomps past Peter’s quarters on his way to his own, Groot trotting obediently behind him.

Peter grins around the spoon, takes hold of Gamora’s wrist to guide it back out of his mouth. “You know you don’t actually have to do that, right?”

“I know,” Gamora shrugs, her mouth quirking to one side, something easy and bright in her eyes – and oh. Yeah. She’s enjoying this as much as he is.

She feeds him the rest of the bowl, spoonful by spoonful. And when she’s done he pulls her into his lap and kisses her, softly, the sting of the spice still burning his tongue.

It’s the first time they’ve kissed properly since he got sick – cause he’s, you know, a gross, snotty mess – but Gamora doesn’t seem to care, at least not in that moment – she wraps an arm around his neck, strokes her fingers through his hair.

“Reckon we could compete for The Ugliest Lick?” He asks her, after a moment, waggling his eyebrows.

She groans. “I am not going to lick you, Peter.”

“What if it would make me feel better?”

“There are some lines I will not cross, even in the name of healing you.”

“What if it would save my life?”

“Under what circumstances would my licking you save your life?” Gamora fixes him with an sceptical look.

Peter considers for a moment. “…sexy ones?”

Gamora laughs, softly, glancing into his face from under her eyelashes. “Perhaps when you’re better.”

“You got yourself a deal.” Peter settles his arms around her waist – he wants to kiss the curve of her neck (he really like her neck); but he’s definitely about to sneeze so he has to turn away abruptly and cover his mouth.

Gamora silently offers him a tissue.

“You’re really good to me, you know that?” he’s blowing his nose, so he doesn’t see the way she’s looking at him until a moment later. “What?”

“It’s refreshing,” she intones, slowly, as if she’s having a hard time picking out the words, “to be – good. To you. To anyone. To nurture someone, rather than…”

“Violently murdering them?”

“Yes.”

Peter squeezes her gently. “’Course you like looking after people. I think that’s kinda who you are, you know?”

“That wasn’t always true,” Gamora’s eyes are dark and sad, all of a sudden.

Peter considers for a moment, studying her. “Yeah, actually, I think it was. I know Thanos fucked you up pretty good for a while, but I don’t think that was ever – you know – real.”

She doesn’t say anything to that, and Peter can’t stand the doubt he can feel in her. He digs for something to say. “Look, you just spent a week making me soup. You literally just spoon fed me most of a bowl. I mean, even if that was only to annoy Rocket, that’s not the most murderous way to treat a person. Unless, I guess, if you were trying to poison someone and you put – ”

Gamora puts a hand over his mouth. “I would prefer you simply compliment me.”

“Done,” Peter winks at her. “You’re the smartest, sexiest, nicest nursemaid I ever had. And you make the best soup.”

But she’s smiling again, and he takes her hand and brushes his lips to her knuckles.

“It wasn’t only to annoy Rocket.”

“Yeah, I know. I told you. You like looking after people.”

“I like looking after _you_ ,” Gamora replies, with a shrug. “Your terran physiology is so delicate. It needs careful handling

She’s stroking the back of his neck, and yeah, okay, he kinda likes that. “It does, huh?”

“Mm.”

“I mean, technically, it was my celestial physiology that made me sick – but, uh, you can handle whichever parts of me you like.”

“I am not going to have sex with you whilst you are ill.” She prods him in the chest.

“I was not suggesting that!”

“There was a definite implication.”

They haven’t had sex yet. Not really. They’ve done _stuff_. You know? Fun stuff. Good stuff. Just not _that stuff_. It’s the first time he’s ever consciously taken things slow with anyone, ever. But Gamora’s too important to him for Peter to risk messing this up and she isn’t used to really being touched by anyone who wasn’t trying to hurt her, so they’re both kinda cautious.

He knew it was gonna take time to get to the physical stuff with her – that maybe they just never would – and he’d known she was different, that this, whatever they’re doing, is different than anything he’s ever done before because he doesn’t much care.

Still, the minute she wants it he is so, absolutely, totally there.

“Tell you what,” he offers, after a moment of companionable silence, “you take care of me however you like till I’m better. Then I’ll take care of you – however you like.”

Gamora meets his gaze for a moment, then smiles, the spark behind her eyes knowing. “A fair trade.”

“Right? Can’t promise I can make soup as good as yours. But I can do some other stuff you’ll like.”

“Will I?”

“I mean, I’ve never had any bad reviews, that’s all I’m saying.”

While Gamora laughs, he turns aside and sneezes again.

 


End file.
